


untitled, unfinished

by calistear



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 19:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19026568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calistear/pseuds/calistear
Summary: snippets.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will doesn't want to think about Clay getting married.

**1.**

"You miss him," says Amy. It isn't a question.

Will closes his eyes. "Yes."

**2.**

The sun is coming up. Will doesn't know why he bothers watching anymore. Now that Clay's off and engaged, there's nobody to watch the sunrise with.

"Talk to me." It's the fifth time Amy has said that this week.

"Maybe later." It's the fifth time Will has refused.

**3.**

Clay doesn't invite Will to his wedding, and Will is glad. Neither of them can look each other in the eye the way they used to.

**4.**

Amy sits opposite him, a cup of coffee warming her palms. "So, you're not going to Clay's wedding?"

"He didn't invite me," says Will. "It's okay, Amy."

She just shakes her head and sips her coffee. "You don't understand, Will. It's not okay."

Will doesn't try to argue with her. Deep down, he knows she's telling the truth.

**5.**

"I called him," says Amy. 

Will grips the table. "You didn't."

Her mouth is set in a determined line. "I did. And you're invited to his wedding."

"Jesus, Amy, I don't want to go to Clay's stupid wedding."

"It'll help you get over it—"

He stands up, eyes flashing. "Get over it, Amy? You think that's what I want to do?"

"I just…" Amy falters. "You guys were best friends. What happened?"

"I fell in love," says Will shortly, and leaves.

**6.**

Clay visits him a month after the wedding. "Hey, Will. How are you?"

Will clears his throat and looks at Clay's nose. "Fine, thanks. And you?"

"Good." The two of them stand there, on opposite sides of the threshold. Then Clay sighs. "Look, Will, I don't think I can do this. Just talk to me when you want to." He pats Will's arm before walking away.

Will tries not to think about the cool kiss of Clay's gold wedding ring on his skin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a book I'll never finish writing. Originally titled _In Blue and Red_.

**PREFACE**  
Mr. Ronin murdered Miss Ophelia Leben on September 15 and the school did what they did best: nothing.  
Call me tactless, but that line’s just too good to delete. I apologize in advance for any hurt feelings.  
A year ago, my former year leader Miss Medway requested a meeting with me. She already got on my nerves by making me skip English, so I didn’t bother pulling my skirt down to my knees when I went in. I did, however, press a button on my phone camera to record our meeting. The following conversation has been transcribed from the original recording.  
Miss Medway sighed at my stretch of exposed thigh. We exchanged pleasantries before she cut to the chase. “So, the rest of the faculty and I know you know what really happened with Mr. Ronin. So we’re asking you to write a recount of everything that ha—”  
“I don’t want to,” I said. She smiled and said I could always stay after school and answer teachers’ questions in a private room. Like an interrogation cell.  
Me: “Fine. I’ll write it. When’s it due?”  
Miss Medway: “By the end of next year.”  
Me: “How many pages does it have to be?”  
Miss Medway: “As many as you’d like.”  
Me: “Font? Font size? Margins? Spacing? Do I need to cite my sources?”  
Miss Medway knew not to tell me off. “Adair, all we’re asking for is a detailed recount. Do whatever you want.”  
Bad choice, Miss. I’ve written a novel now.  
Let me be clear. Novels are meant to entertain, not inform. If this circulates around school an idiot sues me for libel, I’ll sue them for stupidity.  
My name is Adair Reddon. I am nearly sixteen years old. And like you, I was happy once.

 _Answer one of the following questions:_  
1\. The author uses three literary devices in the first sentence. Identify these devices and discuss the author’s intentions.  
2\. Read and discuss the conversation the author has with her teacher. What can you infer about her personality?  
3\. Consider the phrase _like an interrogation cell_. What literary device is this? Why has the author chosen to use this phrase? 

**MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 17.**  
“Where do I start?” I ask nobody.  
“From the beginning,” say parents and therapists and counsellors and teachers and low-budget movie characters and other people who don’t understand how you can never put your finger on an exact beginning because there is no such thing as an exact beginning.  
If you round the exact beginning to two decimal places, the best place to start would be on September 17. My diary had been full of writing. Everybody forgot to talk about makeup gurus’ latest videos or who went out with who to the mall last weekend. The only words that left people’s lips were _Miss Leben, Miss Leben, Miss Leben, dead._  
Miss Ophelia Leben had taught English at my school. Everybody smiled at her because everybody liked her. I asked people why they liked her so much, and they always responded with _she’s so nice_. That’s bullshit. Miss Leben was the most beautiful woman you and I had ever seen in our lives.  
Three years ago, she walked into school for the first time. Vanilla perfume lingered wherever she went and so did the whispers: “Look at the new teacher. She’s so pretty.”  
Blythe and I craned our heads to get a good look at her. The rumors were true, as rumors often are. Her beauty was the striking kind: high cheekbones you could cut yourself on and bright eyes that could dig up all the secrets in your soul.  
She was more than just beautiful: people loved her. We worked hard in her class, eagerly joined the after-school clubs she promoted, and showered her in birthday gifts and end-of-year treats. The teachers were even more infatuated than we were. Even the married ones made passes at her. Picture Mr. Sketchman touching her shoulder with one hand while a wedding ring glittered gold on the other.  
If she said the word, we would’ve gone to war for her.  
And now she’s dead.


End file.
